The red thread conects us
by The TARDIS blue owl
Summary: *Post Reichenbach Fall, contains spoliers for entire show* After the fall Johns finally moving on & out of Baker street, but fate has a way of ruining that plan. Based on the Chinese and Jappanise legend of "the red thread of fate". Contains mild Johnlosk cause its beautiful. T cause I'm that paranoid.
1. Chapter 1 :Skulls:

**_[AN; Hello valued veiwer. I would like to present to you my new Sherlock Fanfic. Okay so; if its_****_ bold _****_and_****_ italic_****_ the person who's veiw it is doesn't want to think the name/event so they refers to them as He/She/It etc.,_********_if it is just _**_italic __**then I'm using a quote from an actual episode, if it's **_**bold**_ italic__** and **_underlined _**then its a chapter name or AN]**_

_**Disclaimer; Do you think I would bother writing this if I owned Sherlock?I would have already made it in to an episode.**_

**_.:Skulls:._**

The brisk pressing of keys echoed through the almost vacant living room of 221b  
Baker Street. A man sat behind a worn laptop, the floor boards under him  
creaked as he lent against a cardboard removal box. After all that had happened John Watson  
couldn't bear to live in the flat he had shared with the most remarkable man he  
had and probably ever would meet, after all that had happened. He was moving  
on, packing up, getting out.

He was sorting through the cupboard in his room, when he found his old laptop.  
He hadn't typed a word on his blog, since well **_it_** had happened. The  
laptop had just sat there collecting dust. But now here he was typing furiously  
under a new name, on different blog, saying things that no one thought he ever  
would.

He was lost to the world, in the torture of his own thoughts.

The words pouring from his finger tips, his head pounding as the painful  
thoughts of the previous year's events. When- no he wasn't even going to think  
of the abandoned feeling he still felt, why had **he**- no, no more. This was John Watson, getting over all the pain.  
John Watson had been a soldier; he had seen many great men die; many whom he  
had been trying to save. Some were his friends, but **he** was his best friend. John still owed him so much. His woollen jumper, was soaked around the  
collar line as he closed the lid of his laptop, and buried it under the  
contents of a rather deep card board box. He was moving on, out, he was getting  
out.

As John Watson carried the last box out the black door of 221b Baker Street, a  
series of emotions overcame him, sadness as he was leaving the flat he had  
grown to love; well maybe it wasn't the flat he had loved. But also a sense of  
hope that maybe now he could finally move on. He slowly limped over the  
building's thresh hold, his left shoe catching on a strand of red thread,  
dropping the box he had in his arms, the contents flying onto the foot path. He  
could've sworn he heard a familiar, chortle from inside the apartment. But he  
ignored it, because that was impossible. **_He_** was de … gone, he was gone. John  
scrambled to gather up the objects now sprawled across the side walk. Among  
them was a skull, a real human skull, Sherl- **_his_** skull, which he had  
always talked to when they first meet.  
John Watson had this weird feeling in his chest, a sort of sinking  
feeling, but he simply shook it off.

_**Please tell me what you think through a review, cause that would help A LOT!**_


	2. Chapter 2 :Pills:

**_[AN; Okay I'll try to be quick this time... First thanks to all have continued reading this, and those who favourite it. It means so much to know people are enjoying my work.]_**

**_Disclaimer: Guys really? I only own the plot. _**

**_.:Pills:._**  
The next day while John Watson was doing a little look around of his new suburb, he stumbled upon an old derelict multistorey house. He didn't know why but it seemed very familiar, it was abandoned so he thought he might as well go in and see why.  
The stairs were going; the wood weak in some areas, there was scuff marks on the wall by the top of the stairs, thin like a cane had hit it. Surely no one in need of a cane would come up here, the marks were old, but the rotting stairs were older. Along the railing of the stairs, there was a strained of red thread wound, but John merely thought it a coincidence that it was the same as the thread he had stumbled over the previous day. So he continued up the stairs, he walked through each rotting room across each rotting floor board, before he came to a room with the wall smashed in.  
An old rocking horse sat in one corner, though John took no notice his eyes were fixed on what lay, or more didn't lay in front of him. On the floor boards, in white paint that seemed to glow in the early afternoon sun, was the outline of a body. John knew why he remembered this building, this is where it started. This was their first case; A study in pink. That's what John had called it at least. It had been fun.  
"_Fun, there's a woman lying dead_." His words echoed through his mind, this was weird for a second he had forgotten everything that had happened only a few months ago. Around the body lay a strand of red thread, it circled the outline of the body. That was strange, John took one step out of the room and saw it came in through the main door, circled the body, then back out of the door. This had to be more than a coincidence.  
_"Perfectly sound analyst, but I was hoping you'd go a little deeper."_ The familiar words echoed through his head again. This whole situation was too weird.  
He was getting hungry; it was well past lunch, he remembered a little Chinese dinner they had gone to after this case.  
He started back down the stairs, following the red thread back out the main entrance of the building.  
Through the twists and turns of lane ways, past familiar faces, and yellow spray painted walls, the words were faded so John took no notice. But if he had his heart would've broken yet again, as in large bold font the name he had tried to delete (as the man himself always put it), was scribbled in what would've been achingly familiar hand writing, along with the words "I Believe in", it was good that John Watson had not been paying attention, to the walls and more the trail of red thread that made its way towards the dinner.  
When John Watson finally finished his plate of food he cracked open his single fortune cookie, he dropped the flimsy sheet of paper after reading the full passage scribbled over it, his hands shaking as it lay on the olive floor tiles.  
"I told you I could always guess the fortunes in these-SH"

_**Please tell me what you think through a review, cause that would help A LOT!**_

**_Oh and I may not get to update tomorrow cause of real life complications. If I don't I WILL on Saturday._**


	3. Chapter 3 :Bills:

_**[AN so another new chapter for all those who have been kind enough to keep next one might be on Monday or **_**_Tuesday, but if its later I am sorry, just IRL issues.}_**

**_Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Sherlock would at least be kinda nice to Molly. Also Toby would get screen time. So yeah don't own it._**

_**.:Bills:.**_

Tesco was still a block or two away as John Watson trudged through the sleet of the early London morning. The wind whistled through the allyways nearby.

His eyes were drooped and dark patches had formed below them in large half rings.

When a rathertired Watson finally arrived at the Tescos, it was still very early so the supermarket was almost empty. As John walked up to a chip and pin machine, John juggled his wallet and the carton of milk he was buying. He scanned the barcode of the milk that had to last until at least next Monday. But when he went to pay, his card showed up as invalid, he tried again and again but just like the first time it didn't work. He started screaming in frustration at the machine that refused to comply with his demands. He was getting into a fight with a chip and pin machine, "_Well it just sat there, while I screamed abuse at it._" Luckily he had just enough in change to purchase the milk. He stormed out of the shop and back onto the street, all the while a piece of red thread running along the wall beside him. He continued walking grumbling to himself each step he took, his eyes focused intently on the cracks in the pavement. When he finally looked up his eyes were met with the sight of the golden numbering of 221, he had without even thinking walked back to Baker street. Sheepishly he turned to hail one of the passing cabs, but found none would stop for him. Shoulders slumped he began to walk further down the lane way. As he walked he started to feel a bit more awake, that little bit more saner. That was until he started to look at his fellow pedestrians, and started to really see what their lives held; that man is forty-seven, divorced twice, both had been gold diggers, never had children, retired due to a heart condition.

The more John observed the more he had wished he hadn't. Coincidently if he had just been paying a little less attention to each passerby's personal life, he would have seen a tall man walking in the opposite direction, sporting a dark trench coat, and a blue scarf.

_**[AN Guys please review, it keeps me motivated!]**_


	4. Chapter 4 :Bullet Holes:

.:Bullet Holes:. John Watson tossed and turned as the sound of gun fire echoed through his otherwise empty mind, these were not the guns of the war, this was the sound a hand gun. In his still half asleep mindset, John Watson stumbled from his room, into the living room. "Sherlock, I know you're bored, but is two am! Put the gun down and watch the tele or something other than ruining the wall!" to John's surprise there was no sarcastic response, no grumble of annoyance or even the stomping of grudgingly moving feet. John finally opened his eyes properly and saw before him, an empty room. A room that most certainly was not 221b, a room that most certainly didn't contain a very much alive Sherlock Holmes. John sighed Sher- He was gone. John shrugged turning away, biting back manly tears, cursing his mind for the cruel act. He walked towards the kitchen area to grab a cup of tea. Mug in hand he begain walking back to his room, but John Watson never got to drink his tea, because as he existed the kitchen, his eyes met with a certainly impossible site, along the wall in a curved 's' like shape were twenty bullet holes. And so the mug lay in shards on the floor boards, but as John bent over to pick them up, a slip of white paper court his interest, along the wall behind the sheet ran a length of red thread; but John never did observe. He turned the paper over in his hands, written in dark blue ink the words " But I'm bored!- SH". John decided he might need another cup - or three- of tea now. 


	5. Chapter 5 :Ridding Crops:

**_[AN; again sorry for the length... I'll write a longer chapter next time...]_**

_**Disclaimer: Yep, still don't own it...**_

**_.:Ridding Crops:. _**

When Sherlock had been alive, John had been his anchor to reality, to dull boring reality. But now after everything that had happened, John felt himself drifting away. John needed a purpose again. Because it isn't only geniuses that get bored. His mind has to be toying with me, John had concluded as he walked through lane ways in areas he vaguely remembered. He came into a white walled lane, though he was not paying any attention to the walls of the lane itself nor the red thread that ran along the sides, but more to the splattered barely visible trail of pale red drops dried into the paving stones. John shook it off, they were old there was no chance the injured person was near by, they hadn't been in almost a year or so. John sighed his breath forming a cloud before him, the winter air chilled him to his core. As he exited the lane, he came to a large house with a black door, a silver 10 hung on the awning above it. John stared at the door for a moment, he began remembering all that had happened during this case, the case of The Women. He turned and was about to leave when the black doors slid open to reveal no other then Irene Adler herself, she strode down each step elegantly before handing a rather shocked John Watson a medium sized beige cardboard box, with a folded note on top. Irene nodded, turned and disappeared down another lane way. John opened the box to find a crystal ashtray; the one from the palace, he noted. Unfolding the note, his hands began shaking, the words in the handwriting he was seeing everywhere these days set his heart racing in his stomach," We don't always stay dead- SH".

_**Again PLEASE review !**_


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